


Cathexis

by Memoriam



Series: Opposition [3]
Category: Subspecies
Genre: F/M, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most plausible thing that might have happened, but probably didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cathexis

Dusk had never come easily to him.

It hurt. More than words could describe in any language he had ever learned, it _hurt_. Consciousness caught him like gyre hooks, twisting his spine with the burden of all the years he carried. Muscles clenched in protest of another night of unnatural servitude, his very bones at war with him. Even at his most hale, there were always a few brief moments where he wondered if it was truly worth it; at his least fortunate, it was enough to rob the strength from his limbs, restricting him to crippled shuffling, his wits dulled with futile, inescapable agony.

Tonight, it was like penance.

He lurched upright upon his bier, catching himself on one elbow more through luck than design, his lips contorted in a rictus of pain. The sensation was so _enormous _that for an endless, aching moment he could do nothing but submit to it; could not even wonder what had happened to render him victim to such explicit, terrible suffering. His eyelids fluttered as he strove to force them open, struggled to make some sense of the anguish that rent him. Worse than a stake, worse than the sun, worse than _anything—_death itself might have been worth the release—

—they'd buriedher.

The shock of it lent him the strength to sit up; he scrabbled helplessly for balance as the realization sank in. The knowledge seared his mind as surely as it did his carcass. He had regretted—but he'd never thought—never imagined that he'd stoop to—never believed that—surely even _Otto _knew better—but her distress was palpable; omnipresent, intolerable. He gritted his teeth so hard his fangs tore the inside of his lower lip as his own rage flared brightly enough to afford him a little relief. The pain of it was welcome; at least it was his own.

They'd _buried _her.

Had he been asked, he could never have explained how he managed to struggle to his feet but, once his shoulder was braced against the wall, the arm dangling like dead weight beneath it, he found that he could stagger forward with some small modicum of speed. Every movement felt like splinters of bone driven into his stiff, unyielding joints; every inch of progress was a battle not to stumble over his own corpse feet. He cursed himself as a thousand different kinds of fool for selecting an eyrie, rather than a burrow; he swore a thousand different kinds of vengeance against his brother, for subjecting them both to this. How dare he. How _dare _he. Having to withdraw had been ignominious enough, but this—this was _vileness. _He had never believed Stefan's pious humility to be anything more than a cloak, but to offer this kind of misery to a mere fledgling—

The retribution for this would be _extraordinary._

He paused at the head of the stairs, clutching his midsection in a vain attempt to stave off his torment. Yet his limbs seemed somewhat more inclined to obey him; he was able to stretch forth his arm, splaying his fingers against the unyielding stone of the wall. Thus supported, furious at his own weakness, he was able to shamble down the stairs in a parody of movement, the narrow spiral of the staircase almost enough to defeat his precarious balance. He was never this frail, never this feeble, not unless—the realization was enough to make him stumble to a halt. He was so far gone, drowned in his own distress, that his sense of time had deserted him. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but if it had only just begun—if she were to somehow expose herself—his eyes rolled frantically as he searched for a window, a chink in the stones, something, anything that might give him some clue as to what awaited him outside, before realizing that it was impossible.

There was nothing for it but haste.

Picking his way down the stairs as carefully as he could manage, he let his eyes droop shut once he reached the main hall, trusting his senses and his centuries-old knowledge of the castle's confines to guide him more surely than his urgency. He struggled for calm, for surcease, for some sense of what it was that ailed her so, but it seemed a hopeless task; his mind was awash with her terror, his body wracked by their shared pain. He knew with a leaden, weary dread that she must be burning; little else could disorder even the delicate mind of the newly risen so. There was no power on earth great enough to spare Stefan, no place within it that could hide him—

—the feeling of wood grain beneath his fingertips was almost a benediction.

His claws dug splinters from the door as he scrabbled for its iron ring; it took far too much of his strength to haul it open. He braced a hand against the stone of the door frame, propping himself against it with a mixture of exhaustion and paranoia. He could scarcely make sense of what he was looking at; it hardly seemed real when contrasted against the serrated throb of terror and agony that had driven him from his rest.

The darkness was nearly impenetrable.

A full moon rode the sky, but the scudding clouds had shrouded it almost completely. True night had fallen; the stars had only just begun to pierce the black sky, but there was not even the faintest remnant of twilight to be seen. It was a clear night, brisk and welcoming; there was nothing in it to harm her. He scanned their surroundings thoroughly, but could detect nothing, living or dead, near enough to make any difference. A rough, rude cross, nothing more than a split sapling lashed back together, marked what would only prove to be a temporary resting place for her. His lip curled at the sight of it, but even that should not have caused her to suffer so.

Yet her anguish was still palpable.

He lurched closer, feeling the tension in his limbs slacken with every step. His frown deepened as he caught sight of the mound of newly disturbed earth, and the numerous footprints that surrounded it; a long swathe of flattened, muddy grass, leading off in the direction of the gatehouse, showed that they had not even bothered to carry her. _Disgusting. _If so little respect had been shown... there were so many other ways to ruin a helpless fledgling without destroying her... memories flickered through his imagination with sickening familiarity. Her hamstrings cut... her teeth broken, or wrenched from her mouth... her fingers severed...

_...if they'd buried her facing downward—_

But no; even as the filthy idea occurred to him, his sharp eyes caught the faintest stirring from the pile of dirt. His lips skinned back from his teeth with grim pleasure; whatever had befallen her, she was still able to fight for her survival. He recalled her easy, weak pliancy, still colored with the chagrin of his terrible mistake, and edged closer still; he might not have credited her with it, were he not seeing it for himself. The rustling grew stronger, her efforts powerful enough to send a light shower of soil and pebbles tumbling to the ground. He ground his teeth in mingled anticipation and anxiety; he yearned to see what she had become, but could scarcely bear to think of what might have been done to her. He might have sunk to his knees, might have helped her dig, but if she could not manage this, terrible as it was, on her own—

She burst from the ground like an angel unchained.

His heart ached with the beauty of it, but the illusion was quickly spoiled: she gasped, choking, clutching at her throat. No wonder she had been so deeply petrified; she had not yet realized that breathing was no longer a necessity. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a mixture of relief and disdain. It had been long and longer since he had needed to worry about the difficulties that plagued the young ones; this was merely an unpleasant, if not entirely unwelcome, reminder of what he had embarked upon.

He started forward, wondering what had just risen to greet him.

She struggled to free her knees, lurching forward with ungainly force; she had also failed to realize her new strength, during her desperate struggle for air. Her palms hit the ground before her, scrabbling in the soft earth; she found enough purchase to hoist her lower half free and dragged herself forward, kicking her legs to rid them of the soil that still restrained them, ripping the ends of her long white garment. She rested on her hands and knees, head down, her dirty hair dangling forward to obscure her features as she panted harshly.

All in all, distinctly unimpressive.

But he had still seen far worse entrances into his keeping. There was still room for hope; he had enjoyed a number of successes. He watched her carefully, urging her her towards... he could not have said precisely what; some act, some sign that she had already begun to adapt. She raised her head, staring out into the darkness that shrouded the hills, undoubtedly overwhelmed by how very different they had come to look; but she did not give the slightest sign that she was aware of his looming presence behind her. He frowned, his lip curling in displeasure; but he was not yet deterred. Leaning forward, he fanned his fingers wide, letting the tips of his talons come to rest gently on her back.

It was as if he had lit her on fire.

She _snarled, _a guttural, inhuman screech, and whirled so quickly that even he was scarcely able to follow the movement; snapped at him so quickly he was barely able to withdraw his fingers from her gnashing teeth. She scrambled hastily to her feet, her fingers curling into claws as she backed away from him, rage sharpening her features into an unrecognizable mask. He watched her impassively, making no movement. There was nothing human in her eyes; nor, unfortunately, did there seem to be much cognizance. She was angry, fierce, starving; little more than a revenant, concerned only with slaking her thirst, viewing him as nothing more than a potential obstacle.

He had not expected much; but he had hoped for better.

Her shoulders twitched as the wind shifted; she struggled to appreciate the new sensory input without sacrificing her focus on him. He debated simply waiting her out, letting her spring for him—but no. The breeze brought with it the sounds of the festival below; as aware of the threat he represented as she was, she was unable to ignore the evidence of so many human lives, aware on some level of what they would mean to her. The corner of his mouth lifted as he imagined simply letting her go to do as she would; it would give them reason to recall why they practiced their ritual, and a fitting backdrop against which to conduct the rest of the evening's business. He dismissed the idea just as quickly. As empty as her eyes were, he had no faith in her ability to look after herself.

As quickly as he moved, she was nearly faster.

His long, bony fingers clamped down on her wrist like a shackle. This time she wasted no energy on squalling; she slashed at him with her free hand, her nails snagging the lapel of his coat, and threw herself backwards with all of her weight in an attempt to break free of his grip. She stumbled, her ankles tangling in the shredded ends of her nightgown, nearly falling. She found her footing, but not quickly enough to prevent him from hauling her upright, spinning her to face the other direction as he did so. She made another lunge toward freedom, but he wrapped his other arm around her waist to restrain her, pressing her back against his chest and realized, with an odd thrill, that her body was still warm. She writhed furiously in his grip, the breath rasping in her lungs as she sought to rake his shins with her heels; he threw his weight forward, forcing her to kneel with him. She clawed at him wildly, reaching behind her to strike blindly; he released her hand and raised his arm, shrugging to help the sleeves ride up. She seized him roughly, nails digging into his dry flesh while he slipped his bicep around her shoulder; she bit the exposed bend of his elbow.

It was almost enough to make him loosen his grip.

She gnawed savagely at the joint, her razored fangs shearing through his flesh a long forgotten species of pain. He clutched her tightly, and straightened his arm as much as he could; her hands closed tightly on his forearm, as if to prevent his escape. She buried her face against him, her chewing and sucking growing ever more frenzied until, at last, his torpid blood began to flow. He could not suppress a surge of relief as she sagged against him, even as he enjoyed her eager amazement, her joy at the realization that satiety was possible. She sank her teeth in farther; he wound his fingers through her hair and yanked her back. Her body stiffened with fury, but his hold had already loosened. She lowered her head slowly, wary of further resistance, and licked the gaping rent she had torn in him experimentally; when he merely stroked her back, she settled down to lapping at the slow trickle that oozed from his wound.

How many centuries had it been?

He was not a great believer in fledglings. He had expected a mortal bride. Yet it seemed that she would come attended by a pair of handmaidens. Perhaps she would find their presence soothing; perhaps she would be horrified by the bestial thing her friend had been reduced to. There was always some period of adjustment, but he had hoped... Ash, at least, had scarcely seemed to notice that he'd died... though one of Ash's own seemed never to have truly recovered. Controlling two of them at once... the other one might cross more easily, but...

It might be better to destroy her.

But he knew even now that he would not; not out of hand, at least. His fingers brushed her matted hair away from her face; she took no notice, lost in the bliss of his blood. At best a nuisance, at worst an outright danger, he could never forfeit a certain measure of tenderness for them; things of his own making that were nevertheless discrete unto themselves. The strange intimacy of feeding had cast its pall over him. The necessity of yielding to another of his kind, allowing them to set their teeth to his flesh, balanced against the curious pride such succor engendered. He allowed the tips of his claws to trail along her shoulder. Her urgency had slackened somewhat, her ravening need replaced by a more tolerable hunger. He might have let her drink her fill, but could not afford that kind of exhaustion on this night of all nights; both of them still had tasks before them.

Yet one thing remained to be done.

He raised his arm slowly, giving her ample opportunity to lean back with it; soon she knelt upright before him, her mouth still busy with his wound. With his free hand, he brushed her blonde hair away from he neck. She tensed at that; her instincts, at least, were good. But she allowed him to nuzzle her without protest, unwilling to be distracted from her own desires. He kissed her gently, savoring her warmth, her softness, even the dirt that clung to her skin.

His fangs sank into her like fate.

She gave a soft cry, arching back against him; his arm was around here waist once more, but this time in support, as she sagged against him. For the first time, he could believe that this was the same creature as the girl that had welcomed him into her bed so willingly the night before. He shuddered, his thoughts a mad tangle of then and now; it was only through a supreme act of will that he was able to force himself to withdraw, sealing his lips around the holes he'd pierced in her. He rasped his tongue along the wounds, eliciting another moan. Barely a drop, only the scantest taste, but she was uncanny in her complexity, standing with only one foot in the grave. It was almost enough to make him regret the night's work ahead of him, and the necessity that their embrace remain brief. Unwillingly, he raised his head; bracing himself on his good arm, he leaned back. She shifted her weight, angling herself so that she could more easily lean against him; resting her cheek against his chest, she heaved a great sigh, and closed her eyes.

For a time, he could not bring himself to disturb her.

But the moon had already made a noticeable portion of its journey; there was other game afoot. He raised his injured arm, glad to find the elbow could still bend, albeit painfully; he slipped the tip of his index finger beneath her chin, slowly raising her face. Her expression was peaceful now, but she still regarded him with an disappointing amount of blankness; there was interest, certainly, but no curiosity. Yet he quelled his displeasure; there was no point in expressing it to her. “What are you called?” he rumbled, striving to pronounce the strange vowels as clearly as he could.

She sat up, balancing her weight on one fist, and regarded him with puzzlement that might have been tempered with suspicion. She tilted her head, frowning at him, and his heart sank; if she was that far gone... “Lillian,” she replied, her mouth firm.

He reached up to brush her bangs away from her eyes; she allowed him to do so with no more than a slight darkening of her expression. “Lillian,” he said, “do you recall your companions?” Her brows drew down in consternation, but after a moment nodded tightly. “What is the dark one called?”

“Mara?”

“You shall join Mara shortly,” he said, struggling to keep the wrath the mere mention of her name provoked from his voice. “Who is the other?”

Another frown. The furrows in her brow deepened. “Michelle.”

“Michelle.” He allowed the name to roll across his tongue, and savored the sound of it; it was good to finally learn it. Excellent. _Most _excellent. Straightening, he caught Lillian's gaze with his own; she watched him closely, so attentive that he scarcely had to exert his will upon her. “Lillian,” he pronounced slowly, “you must heed me very carefully; there is something that Michelle requires of you.”

It was all he could do to keep a feral grin from his face as he spoke.


End file.
